Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina (or Internet) (or Mom)

I am not a victim.

Since Monday, I have been overwhelmed with emails, text messages, voice mails and twitters of concern.

I’m sorry, the say.

Are you OK?, they ask.

And every time I read or hear those words, I cringe a little at having evoked a misplaced surge of encouragement.

Don’t be sorry, I say.

I’m OK.

I’m not surprised, of course.  When I vividly describe the end of the world without naming the origins, it’s natural to assume that something happened to me. Your instinct is to see me as an innocent bystander to destruction, meekly sitting in my garden when I notice a ball of fire in the sky that I had no way of foreseeing.  But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

There are real innocents in life who deserve your condolences.  But I am not one of them.

Nothing happened to me.

In the end of days analogy, I am the guy who supplied the terrorists with yellow cake*.  I closed my eyes and took my money and pretended not to know what it would be used for.  I played my part.  And while only one part of a whole, the apocalypse could not have come without my own contribution.

I am not a victim.

And I am OK.

I am breathing.  I am walking.  I am owning my part and rebuilding in the calm aftermath.  The thing about having a hand in your own destruction is that you can no longer deny your own power.  For good.  For evil.  For things that just are.  Once you have seen what you are capable of, it’s impossible to ignore, well, what you are capable of.

At this point, I have to assume I am capable of damn near anything.

*Except actuallyy giving yellow cake to terrorists.  Seriously, Mr. CIA Covert Government Agency Dude who is investigating an internet red flag alert, this was just a metaphor.  Also, I pay for all of my music.

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